


we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

by velvetnoodle (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Criminal Louis, First Meetings, Harry makes bad decisions, Heist, Las Vegas, M/M, harry works in a casino
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/velvetnoodle
Summary: There’s only one thing that makes Harry’s job on the casino floor bearable, and that’s a chance to grab the attention of the mysterious man who frequents the establishment often. It’s a fun game, the best kind of distraction, until he starts noticing odd things. Patterns. The way the man checks his watch in time with the security guards movements. The way he scans the floor. The way he never interacts with anyone.Red flags.If only Harry wasn’t half in love with the man already, then perhaps he’d stay away.But where’s the fun in that?





	we're swimming with the sharks until we drown

The hours seem to be crawling by slower than usual today, and Harry is in hell. All he wants to do is go back to his shitty flat, flop down on the overstuffed sofa Niall insisted they rescue from the side of the road one week after they moved here, and watch crap TV until he passes out. But he can’t, not for five more hours. Five more long, long, long, hours.

It’s not that Harry hates his job working the casino floor, it’s just that…

Nope, he definitely hates his job. It’s boring, it’s loud, the lights are too bright, and way too many drunk women (and occasionally, men) like to take the opportunity to grab his arse as he makes his way around the tables. 

There’s only one thing that makes Harry’s shift bearable—even more so than the paycheck—and that’s Him. That’s how Harry refers to the man he sees more often than not in his little corner of the casino, because he’s much too nervous to actually learn the man's name. (And because he’s not quite sure hitting on the patrons won’t get him fired.)

_Him._

He’s easily the fittest guy Harry’s encountered in the whole month he’s been working here. Possibly in his entire life, if he’s honest.

Harry wants to know him. Wants to hear the man speak, wants to learn his name, learn everything about him. It’s bordering on an obsession; he’s beginning to go a bit mad with how much he wants it. But fuck, he wants it. He wants Him.

There’s no consistency to the man’s visits, Harry’s noticed. Yes, he’s there weekly, but always on different days. Different times. 

Always while Harry’s on the floor.

(He knows this because he’d interrogated the girls about it. It wasn’t his finest moment.)

He never stays long at any of the tables, but he always seems to do incredibly well. So well, in fact, that Harry’s been instructed to keep an extra close eye on him to make sure he isn’t cheating. Harry doesn’t mind, because now he has an excuse to check him out to his heart's content, and Jesy can’t tease him about it because now it’s his job.

Harry feels incredibly lucky. 

One night, when Harry is feeling _particularly_ lucky, he decides he needs to know more about this man. Like, for example, his name. And some other things, such as where he lives, and whether or not he’s single. (And whether or not he’d fuck Harry.) (Or let Harry fuck him. He really isn’t picky.)

Harry’s slightly ashamed to admit that he’s half in love with this man already, even though it’s only been a month—barely that, even—and he knows he can’t go to any of his friends for advice on the subject, as they’d just tease him. Or, in Liam’s case, lecture him on how dangerous it is to go after strange men. Harry can’t help it though; that’s how fit the guy is. He’s gone a bit love-drunk, flying high on the feeling that comes with infatuation, and he doesn’t want to come down.

“Hi,” Harry says once the man is within earshot, and receives no response. “Hi,” he tries again, louder this time, and the man still doesn’t turn around, only blessing Harry with the sound of his voice.

“I know you’ve been watching me,” he says, and Harry nearly melts into a puddle right there, because what are the chances of his dream guy also being English? It’s fate, he decides. This was meant to be. That knowledge makes him bolder, and he crosses his arms, cocks a hip, and schools his face into what he hopes is a flirtatious expression. 

“Can you blame me? You’re attractive, and I’ve been working up the nerve to talk to you for weeks.”

“Oh, so your boss didn’t ask you to trail me, then?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, and the man seems to take that as an answer.

“That’s what I thought.” He finally spares a glance in Harry’s direction and doesn’t seem impressed. “I can see your nipples through that shirt,” He informs Harry, a certain amount of haughtiness present in his voice.

Harry glances down, first to the left, then to the right, and back up at the man. “Can you really? All four?”

“What the—four?”

He grins, pleased that he’s managed to attract actual attention now. (He’s not ashamed to admit how much he loves that—attention. Any attention. Especially attention from fit strangers in posh suits.) “I have four nipples,” he says.

“Of course you do.” It’s obvious to Harry that the other man is trying for sarcasm, but there’s a hint of curiosity bleeding through, which makes Harry bold. 

“I think I must have been a twin,” he says, “but then the other one went away and left its nipples behind.”

(And apparently comfortable enough to reveal his habit for sharing odd stories with strangers.) 

The man blinks at him like he’s regretting any previous curiosity. “Bloody hell.”

Desperate to regain the positive attention, Harry puffs out his chest subtly. “Did you notice my tattoos as well?”

“Of course I did,” he says, “but those are normal to have on display. Unlike your nipples.”

“Oi,” Harry protests, “what’s wrong with my nipples?”

“Well, for one, you have far too many.”

“I told you,” he whines, “that’s not my fault.” The man is starting to look bored now, and Harry panics, trying to think of something, _anything_ interesting to say. 

“My name is Harry,” he blurts, and cringes at the reaction that gets. “I mean, shit. I’m Harry. What’s your name?”

“Stan.”

“Bullshit. You’re lying.”

The man chuckles. “Impressive. What gave me away?”

“I told you,” Harry says, “I’ve seen you here before. A lot. And I work in a casino—lying is my business. Plus, you have an obvious tell.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“I can’t tell you.” The man just stares, and Harry works to stand firm under his scrutiny. Eventually, he seems to pass whatever silent evaluation the man put him through.

“Louis. My name is Louis.” 

Harry just barely fights the urge to fist pump at this new development, and he’s so busy celebrating that he misses the troubled look on Louis’ face. He’s started patting at his pocket, making Harry wonder what he could be hiding. He’s about to ask when he feels a hand on his arm, and then Louis is speaking.

“We can continue this… Later,” he says, rushing off before Harry has a chance to react.

Harry lets him ( _Louis_.) leave, positive that later won’t actually be too long away, and goes back to doing his actual job before one of the other employees notices and reports him. (It’d be completely worth it, though, because he’s _finally_ caught the attention of his dream guy, and he’s not going to let something silly like a _job_ get in the way of his plans for their future together.)

***

He’s gone for a long time. A long, long time. Well past the point of later, really, and Harry is less than pleased. But he refuses to accept that the man has really left, so with a quick glance around to make sure no one is looking, he slinks off in the direction of the toilets. 

***

He doesn’t find Louis in the toilets. Or anywhere in their general vicinity. Or anywhere at all.

Swallowing down his bitter disappointment, Harry does a walk of shame back towards the main room, stopping when he hears a strange noise coming from the office up ahead. Later, when he replays the events in his mind, he wonders what could have happened if he’d simply ignored the noise; if he’d just continued on his way and let everything happen without entangling himself in Louis’ world. 

But Harry doesn’t ignore the noise. He walks right towards the noise, and opens the door, expecting to find someone familiar inside—Perrie, maybe. Only it’s not Perrie, or any of the other girls. It’s Louis. Louis, standing in front of the safe, and Harry’s seen enough heist movies with Ed to recognise what’s going on. But he still finds himself staring, open-mouthed, as Louis works the lock with nimble fingers. Shit.

“Louis? What are you doing?” Harry winces as his voice echoes much too loudly in the small space. Louis doesn’t even flinch, much less turn around to address his visitor properly. 

“I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing, Curly.”

“My name is Harry.”

“Why do you insist on telling your real name to a criminal, Harry?”

“Are you, then? A criminal?”

“Well,” Louis says slowly, as if talking to a child, “I am currently committing a crime.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you committing a crime? You know you’re just going to get caught.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Help me, though. Help me to understand.”

“I don’t have…” Louis grunts as he tugs at the door. “I don’t have time.”

“I’ll scream. If you don’t tell me. I’ll scream.”

“What difference will that make? They already know I’m in here.”

Harry pales and he hesitates before asking, “What do you mean?” 

“I know you triggered the alarm,” Louis says, and Harry feels his blood freeze in his veins.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Isn’t that why we’ve been having this lovely chat? To delay my escape? Tut tut, Harold. I’m insulted you didn’t think I would catch on.”

“I…” Harry trails off and frowns. “Are you…are you going to kill me?” he whispers.

Louis’ laughter takes him by surprise. “You really think I’d do that?” He looks curious now, like he truly has no idea why Harry would come to that assumption. 

“Well, yeah. I mean, obviously you aren’t averse to other types of criminal activity.”

“Ooh, I see we’re pulling out the big vocabulary words. Well done, Harold.”

“My name isn’t Harold.”

“It is now, Harold.”

“It’s Harry.”

“Again, why are you so insistent on telling a criminal your real name?”

“There’s lots of Harrys,” Harry retorts. “’s not like I told you my last name.”

“Styles.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your last name. It’s Styles. Your full name is Harry Edward Styles, you were born in Redditch, England on the first of February 1994, at…” Louis squints like he’s trying to recall more information. “Six minutes past midnight. You’re currently 21 years old and here on a work visa that expires soon, so you’d better get on renewing that. You have an older sister named Gemma—her articles are lovely, by the way. Very informative—your mum’s name is Anne, and—”

“ _Stop_! How do you know all this?”

Louis scoffs. “Do I really seem like the type of person to not check the background of every employee in the casino I’m planning to rob?”

“I…Maybe?”

“Should I be insulted right now? I feel like I should be insulted.”

“I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry,” Harry apologises, and Louis laughs out loud, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. 

“Did you just apologise to me?”

“Should I not have?”

“God,” Louis chuckles, “god, you’re just so fucking adorable.”

“I’m not adorable.”

“You are. You’re adorable.”

“You know what?” Harry says, “I think I liked you better before I met you.”

“I hear that a lot, actually.”

“I’m not surprised.” Harry attempts to subtly glance out into the hallway while also keeping an eye on Louis. He notes the other man doesn’t seem worried at all, and that makes him nervous. 

Louis clears his throat, pulling Harry’s attention from the door. “They’re not coming,” he says.

“How do you know that?”

“Because,” Louis’ properly smirking now, “they have bigger problems to deal with.” He points to the monitors displaying various areas in the large building, and Harry’s mouth dries up, because _fucking hell_ , why is this his life?

“You didn’t come here alone?”

“Of course I didn’t come here alone. Who can pull off a casino heist alone?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“ _I suppose you’re right_ ,” Louis mimics. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

Harry snorts. “There’s no way you’re always right.”

“Oh yeah? Wanna bet?”

“Well…no. Not really. Not against you.”

“Don’t trust yourself?”

“Don’t trust you.”

“That’s fair.” Neither man says anything for a moment until Louis breaks the silence. “Why are you here, by the way?”

“Because I followed you.”

“No, I mean here. Vegas. America. Not Redditch.”

“I’m from Holmes Chapel.”

“Fucking hell, Harold.”

“I thought you already knew everything about me.”

“That doesn’t mean you should feel free to blab it everywhere. Jesus, you’d make the worst criminal ever.”

“Probably,” Harry agrees. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Harold.”

“Louis.”

“Are you not going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Why should I? You won’t tell me why you’re doing this.”

“A rivalry.”

Harry crosses his arms. “A rivalry? You’re doing this all over a petty little rivalry.” He says the second half like a statement rather than a question, and Louis huffs a sigh, running his hands through his hair and destroying his perfectly styled quiff. 

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” Louis doesn’t exaggerate, and Harry finds he doesn’t really care. “It sounded like an adventure,” Harry tells him finally. “America. Vegas. The casino. All of it seemed so glamorous and impossibly cool and I was bored.”

“You were _bored_? With what, being safe?”

He rolls his eyes. “My life, obviously.” Louis rolls his eyes back and Harry smirks at him. “Though I think my life just got a lot less boring now.”

“And a lot less safe.”

Harry shrugs like this doesn’t bother him at all and wonders for a moment how many times someone can roll their eyes in ten minutes without it beginning to hurt. (Louis probably already knows the answer, he reasons, and there’s no reason to mention his concern aloud.)

Louis’ still looking at him incredulously. “Are you so desperate for an adventure that you’d voluntarily join a gang?”

“I don’t want to join your gang,” Harry says, “I want to be with you.”

“Is that not the same thing?”

Harry shakes his head, and Louis snorts. “You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

“You really don’t.”

“Tell me,” Harry says, standing tall and working to keep his gaze firm and convincing. “I want to know. Tell me.” He steps into Louis’ space, who seems proper rattled now. It’s an interesting look for him, Harry thinks, and he doesn’t completely hate it. (It’s also fairly intoxicating to feel like he can fluster someone so smooth.) 

Louis’ breath hitches as Harry buries his nose in the spot where his neck meets his shoulder and inhales deeply. “Tell me every terrible thing you’ve ever done,” Harry whispers against the smooth, golden skin, “and let me love you anyway.”

His words appear to snap Louis out of his daze, because Harry finds himself being pushed away. The sudden change in their position nearly sends him tumbling, and he frowns. “That was mean.”

“You don’t love me,” Louis snarls, but there’s an obvious glint of uncertainty visible in his blue eyes. 

“I could,” Harry insists. “Eventually. I could love you. Don’t you want that?” 

“I don’t even know you.” He still looks shaken, and Harry feels his heart sinking. Why won’t Louis believe him?

“You do know me. You know all sorts of things about me, remember?”

Louis looks at the ceiling and groans. He doesn’t answer for several beats, eventually ending his study of the ceiling tiles, and blowing air through his nose harshly. Harry stares, eyebrows raised while he awaits an answer.

“See? You know I’m right.”

“No. No, you aren’t. Besides, that’s all superficial information—and mostly about your family, if you recall. And, can I just say, trying to hop into bed with someone who possesses so much of your personal information is a fucking terrible idea.”

“Excuse you,” Harry sniffs, “I never said I was going to sleep with you.”

“But you are coming with me, right?”

Of course Harry is. How could he not? He’s already so entangled in this mess Louis’ made that he doesn’t have any other choice. And he loves Louis, possibly even enough to run away with him. The idea sends a little thrill up his spine, because as nervous and scared as he is right now, he’s also _excited_. And maybe more than a little nauseated. 

(But mostly in love.)

“Well, c’mon then, Curly,” Louis says with a grin, after Harry nods his answer, “it’s time for us to make our grand exit.”

Harry chews on his lips briefly before deciding that, yes, he really does want this. He wants to do this. He’s going to run off with a boy—man?—he’s only just met, and he knows they’ve broken the law (well, several laws), but Harry isn’t letting himself dwell on those thoughts right now. Because right now, all that matters is Louis next to him, hand intertwined with Harry’s, the two of them prepared to take on the world. 

Louis’ words from before have buried themselves deep in Harry’s heart, so deep he might actually believe them. All the promises. All the possibilities. It’s intoxicating. It’s terrifying. 

And Harry fucking loves it.

The sensation of Louis’ slender fingers filling the gaps between his own is comforting; not enough to still the pounding of his heart, but just enough to keep his legs from turning to jelly in time for Louis to turn his head and ask, “Ready?”

He nods, and Louis squeezes his hand once, twice, three times, before tugging Harry’s arm so hard it hurts. (Not that he minds the pain.)

The chaos outside is more obvious once they step out of the tiny room, the nearby corridors filled with the sound of blaring alarms and thundering boots. Harry squeezes back, once, twice, three times, and allows himself to be pulled around a corner. Louis squeezes his hand a final time, hard, and Harry takes it as a signal to let go. He follows Louis through hallways that grow progressively smaller and smaller until they reach an unguarded exit. It takes their combined weight to throw the door open, and Louis nearly drops his bag in the process, but eventually, they’re successful, and Harry’s first gulp of outside air is a shock to his lungs. 

He watches as Louis hitches the bag higher on his shoulder and winks. “Last chance to back out,” he says, but Harry knows he’s wrong, because there’s no way to go back from this, so he just shakes his head, pleased with the smile that then spreads across Louis’ face.

“Okay then,” Louis says, “Okay.” He looks nervous for a moment, but it’s fleeting. “Alright, Harry-not-Harold Styles, are you ready to begin the rest of your life?”

“Not really,” Harry admits, and Louis nods like he gets it. They link hands again, sweaty palm against sweaty palm, not bothering to run anymore as they disappear into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog the fic post here!](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/172663000407/theres-only-one-thing-that-makes-harrys-job-on)


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